Read Between the Lines
by kkolmakov
Summary: Sherlock receives a visit from a woman whose case he took four years ago. Despite successful resolution of the international intelligence conspiracy she'd been dragged into, Sherlock prefers to forget of Wren Leary, a modest librarian, who eventually refused his offer to become his flatmate and a companion, choosing romantic association with a former SAS officer. What changed?
1. A New Client, An Old friend

**Author's note :**

 **This story is a sequel to my story _Read Like a Book._ You may wish to read it first, but plot wise it is not necessary. **

**This story is set four years after the events of the first one, four years after John and Mary's wedding. Since all I feel regarding Mr Moffat's upcoming efforts in Season 4 is terror and apprehension, I'll pretend in this fic that four years down the road everyone is alive and happy, and Sherlock still resides in Baker Street, solves crimes, and has tea with Mrs Hudson, who is still not his housekeeper.**

 **And now to something completely different!**

 **Best,**

 **Katya kolmakov**

* * *

"So, what can I do you for, Mrs Greaves?" Sherlock asked, looking at the woman in front of him. Her strong, long fingers were still wrapped around his after a firm handshake. Slanted eyes roamed his face, a small soft smile touched her lips, and she finally released his hand.

"I'd rather you call me Wren, for sentimental reasons." She wrinkled her nose, grinning - _he'd quite forgotten this gesture -_ and stepped away from him. She looked around the living room, and Sherlock studied her. _Hair shorter, stylish bob, straightened. Visited a salon before coming here. Diamond and sapphire earrings, matching the engagement ring. Never taken off. The bracelet with turquoise, new. Recent purchase, abroad. Vintage. Egypt. Yellow scarf. Bold, tasteful accessories. None of the grey, faceless clothes of four years ago._

"How's your friend, Dr Watson?" The redhead walked up to the mirror on the wall, and checked her looks in a clearly habitual gesture. _High self-esteem. Pleased with her appearance. Comfortable in current romantic relationship. Relaxed. A trace from a small diameter wheel on the suede of the right ankle boot. A small object, clearly forgotten in the coat pocket. Light, plastic. A toy._

"Married. Happily. Two children." Sherlock folded his hands behind his back. "Two girls. And you? Boy, or girl?"

She quickly turned around, and a wide smile quickly replaces the surprise on her face.

"Oh, I forgot how delightfully smart you are." She emitted a silver laugh. "A boy. Thomas. He is three. Born ten months after that story of mine." She wiggled fingers in the air, and snorted.

"By the story of yours," Sherlock drew out, "I presume, you allude to having a memory stick with state secret planted in your flat by a random stranger you met in a pub, who was seeking casual sexual intercourse with you; Russian special forces planning to torture the stick's location out of both of you; you and I being kidnapped and jumping out of a moving car; and finally you deciding to marry the aforementioned gentleman from the pub, who has turned out to be a former SAS and intelligence."

"Yes." She was openly laughing now. "That little anecdote is exactly what I alluded to. And how have you been, Mr Holmes?"

"Quite well, thank you." He continued to stand. After all, he was too well-brought up to sit in the presence of a woman on her feet.

"You seem content. Settled." She studied the skull on the shelf. "Tired a bit, perhaps. Just completed a difficult case?" She looked back at him over her shoulder, and he saw her eyes squint impishly.

"I see your presumed empathy has enhanced… Wren." He hadn't spoken this name once in the four years. When John would mention her in the first few months, Sherlock always had insisted on 'Mrs Thorington.' "I'm indeed quite content."

She walked to John's armchair and sat down. _Not in the client's chair. Not in the sofa where she had been sitting four years ago in her pyjamas. Confident movements. Long manicured nails. Office job. Highly paid position._

He sat in front of her and steepled his fingers.

"I am the Data and Examination Manager of a certain private secondary school for children with special needs," she spoke in an even tone. _Proud of her position. Careful to maintain confidentially. New to the job._ "Some of our children have specific learning difficulties, such as dyslexia, or dysgraphia. Interestingly enough, gifted children are qualified as special needs as well, so we have many children with higher IQ, or special abilities. But as it is a privileged institution, most of our students are children who experience behavioural problems, and their parents can afford to place them to our school..."

"As an alternative of the Youth Court, I assume?" Unpleasant memories stirred in Sherlock's mind. Both 'a school for children with special needs' and 'alternative to conviction to an offence' were painfully familiar. Thankfully, he had deleted those.

The woman in front of him nodded.

"As you can imagine, I am fond of my job. I find it rewarding, and I fit the profile..." she started. But then she smiled softly and changed the subject. "I do not think you care to listen about it. I have… a case for you, Mr Holmes. It's rather insignificant, but I decided I'd abuse our familiarity, and ask for your help."

"You may," he answered, and felt a smile tug at his lips. He had been bored in the morning. He expected it to change now.

"We had an important exam last month. It was to determine the future of several students, as well as who was to receive a scholarship provided by a certain charity organisation. The answer sheets were in my office three days prior to the exam. The office was locked, while I was on my lunch break, and when I returned, I realised someone went inside and moved them. They were put back to the same spot, but..."

"But you're suffering from a mild form of OCD," Sherlock remembered, and she nodded.

"I saw right away they'd been moved. I asked my Secretary, she confirmed she'd gone into the office to water flowers, but she swore she didn't touch the papers. Out of the students who would most profit from passing this exam, three were on the school premises at the time. The School Council cancelled the exam, and all three of them aren't allowed to take the replacement. Two of them would have been expelled if they hadn't passed. The third one needed the scholarship. I need to know which one of them did it, and I need to know how."

Sherlock sat for a few seconds, carefully sorting the data in his mind, and then he realised that she just sat quietly, without moving. Most usually tried to speak to him.

"Which one do you think is the guilty one?" he asked, without looking at her, his eyes still fixed on the wall behind her.

"I don't know." Her voice was frustrated. "Mostly because I don't want to place judgement. And because I do." She sighed, and Sherlock looked at her. _Empath. Unlike fours years ago, more confidence, her abilities now applied and fostered. Emotionally supported._ "Put simply, I like the student who needs the money. I sympathise with his personal history. I don't want him to be the guilty one. And… it means that I can't be objective. And if i want the answer, I can't let emotions cloud judgement."

"But which do you think is guilty?" Sherlock repeated, and she threw him a mischievous look.

"Oh my, Mr Holmes, are you actually asking for my purely emotional evaluation?"

"Do refrain from your frivolities, Mrs Greaves," Sherlock grumbled, trying to suppress a smile, while she grinned at him widely. "And do give me your purely emotional evaluation..."

Sherlock was interrupted by some noise at the stairs. There was stomping - _most likely male, over 12 stones, agile -_ and then Mrs Hudson's loud voice. The door to Sherlock's flat flew open, the woman in the armchair turned around, and…

Sherlock wasn't fast enough. He jumped ahead, toppling her on the floor, his arms going around her, twisting both their bodies, but the bullet grazed her shoulder. Wren screamed in a high pitched shrill. _None of the major arteries impaired; possible damage to the deltoid muscle._ Sherlock jerked his face up, and stared at the assailant and the gun in his hand.

"Oh my god, you're not her..." the man muttered under the ski mask, and made a stumbling step back. Sherlock watched him intently, while listening to Wren's ragged breath underneath him. "I am sorry, I am so sorry… I thought you were Violet..."

Mrs Hudson rushed into the room, and screamed loudly, only to be pushed aside by the man, who bolted out of the room, and tumbled down the stairs.

"And I just wanted to buy a new coat, and see an old friend." The calm voice of Mrs Greaves came from underneath Sherlock, and he looked down at her. She was pale but despite it all - smiling. _Shock?_ "That's what I get for associating with the likes of you, Mr Holmes."

"Call the ambulance, Mrs Hudson. Mrs Greaves has been shot." _His heart rate was elevated. Aftermath of a gunshot? Clearly, he wasn't affected by Wren being injured. The wound was superficial._

"Oh goodness, Sherlock!" The landlady gasped and rushed downstairs. _Probably had left her mobile on top of the fridge as usual._

Sherlock shifted, still pressing his hand into the blood soaked coat on Wren's shoulder. They were on the floor, both half sitting now.

"I live four years with a murderous psychopath, and the worst I have to endure is a delivery, and with an epidural, mind you. I come here, and look at my Chanel!" Her sarcastic, light tone was familiar.

"The ambulance will be here within eight to thirteen minutes. I assume Mrs Hudson called Lestrade as well." _Why was he still feeling panicked? They were clearly in no danger now._

"Oh blimey, it's like _This Is Your Life,_ " the woman continued joking. "The last thing we need to complete the set is your brother and those two Russians that stuffed us in a van four years ago!"

"Wren, are you feeling dizzy? Nauseated?" _Were his hands shaking?_

Suddenly her other hand lay on his cheek.

"Sherlock, I'm fine. It's just a grazing wound, and you know it. It's quite alright..." Her tone was soft. _Like with a child._ He looked at her in surprise. Her fingers lay on his jaw, and he felt her thumb brush near the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry..."

It felt strange. Emotion was foreign, contradictory. No logic. She was wounded, and comforting him.

"It's OK… I'm fine." His fingers twitched on her deltoid muscle. _Why was it difficult to breathe? Probably some associative neurosis. She was fine!_

"Wren..." His voice felt foreign as well. Her eyes were close. Unusual colour. He had, of course, deleted these memories. _Heterochromia iridis._ He saw her pupils dilate, and he noticed a vein beating frantically on the pale temple.

And then the sirens wailed outside. The woman in front of him blinked purposefully, and the facial expression changed. He hadn't understood the previous one.

"Queen and country?" she asked lightly, and Sherlock could hear the medics go up the stairs. He assumed Lestrade would be not too far behind.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 **Rodhina World:**

 **rodhina dot kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

Also available on the blog:

romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

 _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _Updated every Thursday!_

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	2. Violet

They were back in Baker Street three hours later. Wren was nursing her arm in a sling, and felt very sleepy. Due to her gingerness, she always reacted poorly to most medications.

Inspector Lestrade was huffing behind her, going up the stairs, martyrly expression on his face. Wren couldn't stifle a giggle when he'd met them downstairs, near the ambulance. Wren could just hear his thoughts. 'That damn ginger again...'

"You can lie down on my bed, Mrs Greaves." Sherlock's monotonous voice shook her out of the funny memories of the mournfully dropped corners of the silver fox's mouth. "The other bedroom is unoccupied and empty, as you probably already have guessed."

Wren had; as well as many other things. Five years with military intelligence in her kitchen and in her bed did gain her some skills. She threw a quick glance at Sherlock. _Paler than usual. Going down from adrenaline. Scared. Not of the shot, but of his own reaction to it._ Wren felt a pang of guilt. She hadn't expected her visit to affect him that much.

"I just have to ring home..." she mumbled, and went to the bedroom, closing the door behind her, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade in the living room.

While she was clumsily fishing her mobile out of the pocket with her left hand, she took three deep breaths in. The technique was called 'emotion cleansing.' She was much better now at shielding herself from other's emotions, but the extraordinary circumstances made her let her guard down. She could just feel Sherlock's unease crawl her skin. She was unsettling him, and of course she knew it. She had changed, and turned into the worst possible company for him. A confident, sexually liberated woman, in need of entertainment. _She was of course bored, and that was why she was here._ Wren shook her head, chasing the thought away. _165 IQ, prominent empathic abilities, heightened libido. What was she doing playing a housewife in Hull?_

Her fingers habitually dialled her husband's number, and after the first tone she hung up. And cursed herself. _Wasn't Wren thick?_ That was the easiest way to let her husband know something was iffy. Or make him worry. Either would be a disaster.

She dialled up again, taking a measured deep breath.

"What's wrong?" John's voice was tense. _At least five scenarios were currently running in his mind. Three involved his immediate interference. And right now he was thinking where his gun was._

"I was shot. It's a grazing wound. It wasn't aimed at me. At least that's what Sherlock thinks." _Why wasn't her voice shaking? Was she enjoying her adventure that much?_

Seven seconds passed in silence, Wren waited.

"You want me to stay home and let you have your fun, don't you?" he asked, and Wren exhaled and sat on the bed. _Sherlock's bed._

"I don't think I'm in danger..." She felt relieved, and it showed in the voice. _He's not hanging up and buying a ticket to London._

"You can't know it." His voice changed from tense to grumpy.

"The man said he was sorry," Wren whined in a funny voice. There was no rumbly chuckle in the phone. _Too early. He needed more belly scratching._ "He was shooting a Violet. I reckon, I'm not good enough."

Another six seconds of silence followed.

"I should tell you to come home."

' _Should...'_ Wren smiled and plopped backwards on the bed, stretching her back. The shoulder hurt dully. Also, it had been long time established that John could never tell her what to do. That was a joke. And a joke from him meant she had the green light.

"How's Tom?" she asked, closing the previous topic.

They chatted about their son, and then she heard a long sigh in the mobile.

"How long are you planning to stay there? I might get jealous..." The voice dropping lower, and the purr signalled she'd get a warm welcome when she came home.

"Don't get jealous for two days. Then I'll stay one more, and I want to come back to a possessive caveman," Wren giggled, and he made a rather believable roaring sound.

She laughed, but then his sober voice made her stop.

"Are you certain it's safe?"

"No... I'm 87% certain," she answered, and he sighed again, and they said their goodbye.

She put the phone down, near her, and closed her eyes. A text notification came.

 _At least send me naked pictures. J._

Wren snorted and typed, _Would you like to see the bandages? W._

 _If they are on the bum, then yes. J._

 _Perv._ Wren sent the text, and decided a nap would be most fortunate.

* * *

She woke up and rolled on her side without opening her eyes. The pillow smelled unfamiliar, and her eyes flew open. _Sherlock. Gun shot. Violet._

She sat up, and pushed her hands into the hair. The salon bob was falling apart, of course. She climbed off the bed, and rubbing her eyes with her left hand she stepped out of the bedroom.

A young woman was sitting in the client chair, Sherlock observing her from his usual seat. _Tense shoulders, wriggling fingers. Stressed. Scared? Black nail polish, cheap lipstick. Wide track bottoms, tee with some young celebrity. Around 18. The industriously sustained cocky outward attitude._ Wren recognised her own past in the girl. _The estates. Little, or no parental supervision._

"Mrs Greaves, allow me to introduce you to Ms Violet Stephens." Sherlock's slanted eyes met hers, and Wren studied the girl.

Violet Stephens twisted in the chair and looked at Wren. _Immediate hostility of fellow female. Evaluating look. Straight down at the shoes._ Shoes always could tell a lot. _Smart girl. Street smart._

"Ms Stephens, this is Mrs Greaves, my assistant. She has had the misfortunate of being shot instead of you in this very living room."

The girl sat still, lips white, eyes darting between Sherlock and Wren. It was time for a test.

"Yeah, right here," Wren gleefully announced, and pointed her finger at the carpet. "You can still see the blood drops there. See? Right there, the stains..."

The girl twitched and looked down, as if against her will. The blood rushed from the cheeks. Wren caught Sherlock's eyes, and the understanding ran between them.

"Like I said, Mr Holmes, it was Billie. He did it. My boyfriend… He's trying to kill me..." The girl tore her eyes off the floor with difficulty and looked at the detective. "He has a gun, so he came here… I'm sorry, m'am, but you're sort of skinny like me." She now turned to Wren, and looked her over again.

"Do you have a white coat?" Wren asked suddenly, and the girl gave her a confused look. "Because you see, he came in, and I was sitting in that armchair, and I had a white coat on, and it's pretty distinct, so I wonder if you have one too, and that's why he mixed us up..." Wren frowned as if thoughtfully, watching the girl meanwhile.

 _A trap. John always said that people normally chose an easy way out. If there was a convenient lie, especially plainly offered to them, they'd jump at the opportunity._

"No, I don't. You know, you're a fancy lady, where would I get me a coat like yours, yeah?" The girl pouted.

Wren laughed and took John Watson's armchair.

"I grew up in the estates, up North. My Da was a gaver."

"Your Dad was a copper?" the girl asked in disbelief, and Wren nodded. "Copper don't like Mr Holmes as much as I know."

"It's because they are idiots," Wren answered, and they both laughed. Sherlock was quiet, letting her play the girl.

 _Enjoying her adventure, wasn't she? Playing detective. Putting on pikey accent._

"Please, Ms Stephens, tell Mrs Greaves about your boyfriend again." Sherlock steepled his fingers and closed his eyes.

The girl threw Wren a telling look, as if saying 'Look, he's just like he's on John Watson's blog.' Wren smiled with the corners of her lips, while carefully scanning the girl's vibe. _Something felt off._

"Well, Billie, he's… dangerous. A sicko. I can't leave him, yeah? He's going to find me, and kill me! So I was going to come here, to Mr Holmes, for help, you see. He's all over the net, and there are fan clubs." The girl sniffled and squirmed on the chair. "And coppers would just tell me to cock off, you know. But I told Tammy about it, and she told Drew, and I guess Billie sussed out, and he came here… And I'm sorry again 'bout your arm." The girl pointed at Wren's sling.

"It's alright." Wren smiled to the girl, and asked with concern in her voice. "Where is he now? Are you safe?"

"Yeah, he's cocking about somewhere, but I'll go to Tammy after that. We lodge together, Billie and me, you see. So I need to take my things from the flat and hide..."

 _Lying. The girl was lying. Not about being afraid of her boyfriend. Not about a person named Tammy._ Wren listened attentively to alarms ringing in her mind. _And why go to a person who gave out her secret in the first place? And why still come to Sherlock Holmes after her plan fell through?_

"So, what do you want from me, Ms Stephens?" Sherlock asked, and the greenish blueish eyes slowly opened.

"They said you know the peeps under the bridge… You know, the tramps, the homeless. I need to hide, Mr Holmes. I have some money, and then on Monday Tammy will be paid at her job, and we'll leave the city. She's thick of course, and blathers, but she's brick."

 _Something just didn't add up._ Wren knew what it was like to be hunted, and she knew what it was to be afraid. Waiting two days to get paid, and be willing to stay 'under the bridge' to avoid a boyfriend - who apparently was capable to shoot a person from Glock 17C, with its slots cut in the barrel and slide to compensate for muzzle rise and recoil -made no sense. But again, every person had their own mental process; perhaps Wren just didn't understand.

And also, the shooter apologised. And Wren didn't feel any deceit from him then.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 **Rodhina World:**

 **rodhina dot kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

Also available on the blog:

 **romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_**

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

 ** _Blind Carnival_** , a parody on romance/erotic novels

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _Updated every Thursday!_

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	3. Thorington

Thorington - and in his mind, he still allowed himself to think of himself, and now Wren and Tom as well, by his real name, despite how many he had had over the years - stretched on a sofa, the familiar curve on the pillows under his back. This particular sofa in their cottage was too short for him, and he settled his feet on the armrest, as usual. With the reading glasses low on his nose, he opened the book, propping it on his chest. Five minutes into reading he realised he couldn't remember a line of what he'd read.

" _What's wrong?" She'd dialled his number and hung up. He quickly ran through the mental inventory of weapons in the house, and was calculating the fastest way to get to London, when she exhaled softly and answered._

" _I was shot. It's a grazing wound. It wasn't aimed at me. At least that's what Sherlock thinks."_

Sherlock.

They talked about what had happened, and he knew from the start she wanted to stay and have fun in London. She joked and purred and flirted, and they both knew that she could ask anything of him. They also both knew that she would never endanger herself, because they had Tom, and nothing was more important than Tom having both parents, and living happily, and growing up to be another Tim Peake. Or a lorry driver, if he wanted. Because, as Wren would always say, 'they're not the kind of parents to impose their opinions on a child.'

John asked himself what it was that was bothering him. There was no use fighting it. He was frustrated, and he knew himself only too well, after all these years of therapy. _Face. Accept. Calculate. Terminate. The so-called FACT approach they taught him in intelligence. So, Johnny boy? Why the brooding?_

 _Sherlock…_ For goodness sake's, John knew her voice only too well. He as much as studied every little thing about her. She was his biggest asset, and John was thorough about his assets.

She sometimes read about the git online. Every time she'd mention the prick - and she never hid she followed news about him - her voice would change. It did this time as well. Through the conversation, she was John's little ginger - playful, smart, warm. _Kindred._ Except this one word. One slip. One careless move. Not 'Holmes,' not 'the detective.' Sherlock.

John jerked the glasses off and put them on the coffee table with unnecessary force. _C'mon, John, pull yourself together!_ He was a jealous man. _Heightened levels of testosterone, heightened libido, violent past. What else was new?_ Strictly speaking, the possessiveness was reinforced by his PTSD, the bouts of paranoia, and - at this stage, half healed - psychosis. He knew it. Wren knew it. They worked with it. They discussed it in therapy. They talked about it between themselves. They agreed that Wren mentioning other men was a good, healthy thing. They decided that Wren having male friends at work was none of his bloody business. Because when she'd moved to Hull with him, they decided they were a team, and what they had was worth the work and the effort.

John talked himself through the usual affirmations, taking measured breaths in.

* * *

"Dad..." John turned his head, and saw his son in the doorway, cringing from the bright light, his Star Wars PJ bottoms too short for him.

John rolled off the sofa and came up to the boy.

"Why are you up, little man?" He picked up the small sturdy body, and carried him out of the living room, shielding the boy's eyes.

"I want Mum," Tom whined, and pressed his nose to John's neck.

John chuckled. Tom didn't know it yet, but the drawback of being the kid of a former intelligence was that you couldn't lie to them. John knew that on his personal experience.

"Hm… And do you think maybe you're just stalling, and don't want to go to bed?" John asked, and kissed the soft dark curls on the top of the boy's head.

"OK," the boy agreed lightly. "Then I want water. And pee."

"Of course, you do," John laughed softly.

Tom was a joy. Tom was fun. Tom made every day easier to live through. Before Tom, John had Wren, and Wren was the best thing in the world. And now there was also his son, and everything was ace. Except her voice would wrap around that name, and rage would rise in John. There was immediate bitter taste in his mouth, and his teeth clenched.

John mindfully brought his thoughts back onto the present.

"Dad?" Tom touched his nose, and John smiled to him.

"Alright, little man. Loo, then water, then bed. You don't want to keep Mr Teeth waiting, do you?" Mr Teeth was a large, bright blue toy dinosaur Wren had bought for Tom in Paris on their honeymoon. At that time Tom was still a peach sized fetus, and John adored her for it.

* * *

Tom was asleep in ten minutes, and John knew he should've gone to a shower and sorted out dishes from the washer, because those were everyday errands, and that was a healthy energy outlet, as any of his therapists would say. Instead, he went back to the sofa, although he knew he wouldn't read, and would just take his phone out and flip through photos and apps, and something would make matters worse. _He knew of course, but he was getting bloody tired of always doing the right thing, yeah?_

He had three options, really, if he wanted to properly arse up his evening. Option one included reading some stuff for work, getting irritated over it, and going to bed in a foul mood.

Option two was flipping through an extensive collection of Wren's erotic photos he had on his phone, getting randy, going to a shower, but feeling utterly dissatisfied with what he had to offer to himself, and going to bed in a foul mood.

This option also included having the dirtiest dreams about her, and waking up so turned on that no amount of alone time could solve it. He would have to go to loo during his break at work, with these exact photos, maybe even twice. There was one he was very fond of - nothing but glasses, and a mirror on the wall - and he would try not to go for it, but still would, and then he would dream of her, and her wide red mouth that he adored and she was ridiculously conscious about, and her cool pale skin under his hands, and her swift confident movements in bed, and the buttocks. Good god, how John loved the buttocks!

Option three - which John went for, and properly shouldn't have - was to read up the news on the git.

The article in yet another yellow paper included a paparazzi style shot of John's wife being escorted out of the police car, back to Baker 221B, her arm in a sling, and the tosser supporting her under her other elbow - so bloody considerately! - his otter face, which John just hated at the moment, so bloody concerned! The title brought most joy to John, to be honest. _Mysterious woman in white: A client, or finally a paramour?_

When hurled into a wall, the phone made a sad dull thud. John had been still mindful of the child that slept in the same house, so he limited the force of the throw, and the old reflexes allowed him full control over his muscles.

* * *

He could ring up Mrs Harris the nanny, and call sick tomorrow, and take the train. He could just close his eyes and imagine that: opening that door, running up those stairs - trained photographic memory supplied him with visuals - and entering that living room. He was no imbecile, he didn't go with the first image his mind shoved into his face. He knew that the picture of his wife - starkers, her narrow, mind-blowingly sexy back arched, straddling the no less naked world's only consulting detective - was just his paranoia talking. Them having tea, amicably chatting at the tosser's kitchen table was a much more realistic scenario. And - just a wee tad, though - less infuriating spectacle to find.

In his fantasy world he would allow himself one short blow, with his right, to dislocate the prick's jaw so he didn't have to listen to what some fans called - and Wren'd read on some blog, and then quoted and laughed - 'hypnotic velvet voice.' ' _They clearly haven't heard yours,' she then purred and climbed on his lap. Her lips tasted of raspberry jam she was eating, and he could just gobble her up!_

In his hypothetical, but not as satisfying fantasy, he would just tell her that he was worried and needed her home, and that he deeply regretted but her little adventure was stifling his psychological healing, and that seeing her in some grotty paper in bandages was just too much.

John groaned and dropped his head back, staring at the stylish chandelier that Wren had ordered from Florence. She would send him back, reminding him that, just as his latest therapist said, facing a challenge was both a test, and the therapy, and that was exactly the case.

* * *

Nothing had to be said, really: nothing about her being an independent person, and making her own choices, and him having no say in whom she was reading about on her iPad, in their bed, her leg touching his, and her super sexy glasses on her nose.

 _And still, he had every bloody right to hate it! She was his wife! She was his! The git had wanted her, and lost, and now she was John's!_

He heard a crack, and in surprise looked down at a sad deformed piece of metal in his hand that previous had been his favorite pair of reading glasses.

While pulling out pieces of broken glass out of his palm and washing the blood off, he carefully traced his actions back. If he couldn't recall picking the glasses up, that would be a memory lapse. Memory lapses meant an emergency visit to the therapist, and - all his fantasies aside - a ring to Wren. She would rush home, because a former SAS with anterograde amnesia was no proper care for a three year old.

He had picked up his glasses when he pulled out phone. John exhaled in relief and took out the first aid kit from the kitchen cabinet.

* * *

The next day, on the way to the nursery place, he chatted with very excited Tom - that day they had a magician visiting the place, and Tom couldn't wait to see 'a bunny in a hat' - and he explained to him that he was going to be back the next day, since he had a small matter to attend in London. Tom gleefully agreed to spend the evening with Mrs Harris, who was strict but fair, and drew him trains and planes, and whose profile had been thoroughly checked and approved by MOD.

After a quick call to work, John returned to the house, packed an overnight bag, and caught the next train to London.

She would give him hell, but damn it, she was worth it.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **1\. Facebook Writer's Page: katyakolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **2.** **Rodhina World:**

 **rodhina dot kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

 **3\. My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 **romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_**

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **4\. JukePop:** **Katya Kolmakov**

 ** _Blind Carnival_**

a parody on romance/erotic novels {COMPLETE}

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _also_

 ** _Better Than One_**

a parody on romance/erotic and mystery/adventure/supernatural novels {UPDATED EVERY THURSDAY}

 _Summary:_ A spinster librarian, the ghost of a 1900s British naval officer, and a Canadian dreamboat come together in a story that will make a harlequin novel pale in comparison when it comes to cliches, hackneyed turns of speech, and predictable plot twists.

Etta Ryan, a prude and a bluestocking, led on a journey to a mysterious place called Winnipeg, Manitoba, will encounter on her path an unnaturally attractive Canadian farmer, mysterious numbers disclosed to a long dead British officer at a medium seance, a treasure map, a secret cave, and much more. Welcome to the story where plot will make some sense, and erotica is abundant and gratuitous!

 **5. Other media:**

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	4. Need You With Me

**Inspired by a wonderful fanart made for this story by a reader and a friend (available on my writer's Facebook - Katya Kolmakov; not the personal one, but you're welcome on both of them ;D) I decided to go back to the adventures of Wren, Sherlock, and John. The next chapter will be up soon, it's half written already.**

 **Cheers,**

 **K.**

* * *

The next morning Wren climbed out of a cab near 221B. She'd just stepped on the kerb, when the door flew open, and the Detective dashed out of it like a giant bat.

The night before, after Miss Violet Stephens had left with some dodgy looking character from Sherlock's homeless network, Wren rose from the armchair and said she'd go to some nice B'n'B. She reminded Sherlock that she was in London on business, and that she was still hoping he could help her with her case. He watched her face attentively, and she wondered if he could see how much she was hoping he would invite her to join him in the investigation.

 _Guilt._ Guilt was making her squirm, and even the old anxiety induced nausea was back. In the morning, in the hotel restaurant, she had hardly managed to stuff some toast into herself, and now coffee was unpleasantly sloshing in her empty stomach. _Vanity and narcissism. How else could one explain what she was doing here?_ She was happily married, sexually satisfied; and not at all bored in her present life - what was she doing in London, as much as poking a wasp nest? The Detective was clearly perturbed by her presence; the husband at home was probably pacing their house like a caged tiger. She was cocking up two men at once, and blimey, she was trying not to enjoy it! _Was that making her a bad person? Clearly, her therapist would have plenty to say about this._

"Good morning, Mrs Greaves. The cab, please!" Sherlock yelled from the door, and Wren slammed her palm into the window of the car. The cabbie didn't look happy but waited. Wren properly should've stopped scanning the surroundings. A cabbie's emotions were surely not worth allowing to spill onto her. _Breathe in, breathe out._

The Detective jerked the door open and flung his long flexible body inside. _Confident movements. Relaxed facial features. Breathing fast but regular depth. Emotionally affected. Excitement?_

And then she noticed that the vibe from him was familiar. Usually her empathy was impersonal, just another person 'spilling' onto her. Sherlock reminding her of another person was odd. Sherlock reminding her of her husband was odder. Nonetheless, Wren had to concede that presently she was 'reading' one person through her experience with another. _One man through her experience with another._ Sherlock Holmes was distinctly feeling like a badarse.

"Are you coming, Mrs Greaves?" The Detective's voice shook her out of some sort of stupor she was apparently frozen in, her eyes glossy.

Wren picked up the sides of her Chanel coat, and crawled in through the door that he was holding open for her. Her damn photographic memory took a snapshot of his long-fingered hand splayed on the black plastic.

* * *

"We have fifteen minutes until we get to Ms Stephens' flat," the Detective spoke, his eyes glued to his mobile, thumbs dancing on the keyboard. "Give me more details."

Wren kept silent, since she wasn't sure what he meant. Couple minutes passed, and then he spoke again.

"That exam matter of yours. More details on the students, please."

Wren obediently told him of the three students, making a conscious effort not to repeat herself from the day before. All three were male. The two wealthy ones - the ones now to be expelled - were in the school's rowing club; one gay, one straight; one institutionalised for behaviour issues, misdemeanour; the second one - prone to anxieties and psychosis, aggravated by unusually high IQ; dyslexic. The third student - now deprived of the chance to receive the stipend that would've allowed him to stay in the school - was Wren's favourite, and she tried really hard to keep her account objective. The student was gifted, but had difficulties coping with his abilities emotionally. He was enrolled in the school on the sport stipend, pole vaulting and rowing, but had failed to pass Phys Ed class this year due to a growth spurt and the back pain associated with it.

The Detective didn't in any way signal that he heard her, but Wren didn't doubt him. She paused, trying to think of what else she could tell him, when the cab stopped.

Wren looked outside. The landscape was sadly familiar to her from the childhood. Endless cement jungles of the Estates surrounded them, grey and depressing, walls and walls around, like a giant oppressive well. Not a tree or a shrub in view. Graffiti on the walls, rubbish on the ground. A bent, disgraced playstructure. Couple teens loitering not too far. A police car parked, with a copper leaning onto the bonnet, smoking. _Home, sweet home._

Wren took a measured breath in. _All in the past; all this had stayed in her childhood. She had gotten out._ She momentarily closed her eyes, bringing her mind down to the present day. _Mrs Greaves. John and Tom. Spacious, well-lit office. Admirable salary. Her garden, with herbs and flowers. Her small, clean, two-storied house. The cat they were considering to get from a shelter. She was Olivia Greaves; according to her new identity, a daughter of a doctor and a nurse from Manchester. Olivia Greaves had never lived in the Estates; her father wasn't a policeman; her mother wasn't an exotic dancer; she hadn't been assaulted as a teenager._

Wren climbed out of the cab, noting how her fingers were clenched around the Birkin's handle. _Olivia Greaves wore two year old Chanel. She wasn't minted but she loved good quality clothes. She knew a bit about cheeses, and nothing of wines, due to her intolerance; but she could pair them. She was surprisingly well-read. As if she had been a librarian in some other life._

"What are we doing here?" she asked. _Voice not shaking. Measured breathing was helping. Or was it just her bloody curiosity replacing the intrusive memories of her unprivileged childhood?_

"Lestrade just rang me up. Apparently, there has been a murder. At least a suspected one."

"What?" Wren gave him an incredulous look. "You mean, Violet..." _Rising heartbeat. Difficulty to breathe in._ "The girl from yesterday?"

"Oi, Sherlock, over here!" the voice of Inspector came from the right, and Wren turned to look at the entrance of the building. Lestrade's face fell. "Ms Leary… I mean, Mrs Greaves..." The DI gave her a shocked look over. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Mrs Greaves is assisting me in this investigation." The Detective confidently strode by the DI, pulling on latex gloves he'd fished out of his pocket.

"Honestly, Holmes, she isn't even a doctor." The Inspector sounded 100% done with this shite. "How am I supposed to explain her presence at the crime scene?"

"Sherlock, I can't just go to a crime scene!" Wren chimed in with a choked protest.

The Detective was already entering the building and marching to the stairs; and now Wren and Lestrade were mincing after him.

"Nonsense, Inspector. You called me, you know my rules." Now, he sounded every bit the toff that he was. "If you need my consult..."

"Sherlock, it's not about the police rules, or breaking them." Wren interrupted him. "I don't want to see a dead body! I'm no detective, I'm a school inspector!" _Why was Wren still following him?_

"Technically, there's no body. Just a lot of blood," Lestrade mumbled behind her, and Wren gave him a glare.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" Wren wasn't sure where the tone came from. Probably, from being a mother of an exceptionally bright, but simultaneously frustratingly arrogant and independent toddler. "I'm not going to any crime scene. I'm a client, not your assistant."

The Detective stopped a few steps higher than Wren, and looked down at her. A silky black curl fell on his forehead and bobbed. _As if mocking Wren's fondness for silky wavy dark hair._

 _Don't read me; don't read me,_ her mind was begging. _She wanted to go. Bloody hell, she did. It was thrilling, so bloody exciting! His anticipation, the buzzing of his nerves were making her tingle. She might faint - but what if she didn't? Assisting Sherlock Holmes in an investigation was so very tempting!_

And then she remembered it was Violet Stephens whose flat they were now going to. The girl with black nails and fake cocky tude; the girl who was trying to seem so much tougher than she was… _The girl who lied._

"Wren, I need you there," the Detective suddenly spoke, his voice low and even, and Wren couldn't break the eye contact. _Heterochromia; she now knew the term for it. Hers was central; his was sectoral. The eyes so similar to hers - slanted, multicoloured; hers more of a warm hazel, and green; his - blueish, greenish._

"Why?"

 _Why was she asking? Was she milking the moment? Wasn't his admission enough for her? Surely, he never said these words lightly - if ever. Or did she think it was a trick, and it meant nothing?_

"You saw the girl. You read her. I know you did. I need you there with me."

Wren studied his face. They were frozen in the stairs, and she shifted her eyes, once again staring at his hand on the railing. _So elegant._ And then she knew.

"You're feeling guilty. For disregarding her yesterday," she whispered, and looked up at him again. "You think you should have done more..."

The Detective's face remained cold, and Wren heard the DI shift near her in discomfort.

"Are you coming?" Sherlock finally asked, and Wren nodded.

Her mobile buzzed in her coat, but it was on vibrate, and Wren blindly pushed her hand in the pocket, declining the call.

They walked up the stairs, to the second floor. Wren put on the gloves given to her by Lestrade. The flat was small and exactly what Wren expected. Assorted IKEA items, some stuff clearly from a pawn shop. Bottles, dirty clothes, and other rubbish on the floor and every surface of the furniture. She ignored curious faces of several more policemen snooping around the flat, as well as Lestrade's concerned face; and taking a deep breath in, she entered the bathroom, diving under the police 'do not cross' line that Sherlock held up to her.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **1\. Facebook Writer's Page: katyakolmakov**

{PLEASE, FOLLOW AND LIKE!}

 **2.** **Rodhina World:**

 **rodhina dot kolmakov dot ca**

 ** _Please, sign up for Project Rodhina Newsletter!_**

 **3\. My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

 **romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_**

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 _Updated_ _every Saturday!_

 **4\. JukePop:** **Katya Kolmakov**

 ** _Blind Carnival_**

a parody on romance/erotic novels {COMPLETE}

 _Summary:_ Olivia Dane is an author of trashy romance novels. She lost her husband seven years ago and seeks no relationship, preferring the company of her imaginary yet dashing protagonists. When forced to go on a blind date, the last thing Olivia expects is to meet John Dowling, an architect, and a willing guinea pig for her writing research. Armed with openness and eager curiosity, Olivia and John endeavour to find out if erotic clichés even work, whether relationships tie one down, and who wears the trousers in this couple.

 _also_

 ** _Better Than One_**

a parody on romance/erotic and mystery/adventure/supernatural novels {UPDATED EVERY THURSDAY}

 _Summary:_ A spinster librarian, the ghost of a 1900s British naval officer, and a Canadian dreamboat come together in a story that will make a harlequin novel pale in comparison when it comes to cliches, hackneyed turns of speech, and predictable plot twists.

Etta Ryan, a prude and a bluestocking, led on a journey to a mysterious place called Winnipeg, Manitoba, will encounter on her path an unnaturally attractive Canadian farmer, mysterious numbers disclosed to a long dead British officer at a medium seance, a treasure map, a secret cave, and much more. Welcome to the story where plot will make some sense, and erotica is abundant and gratuitous!

 **5. Other media:**

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	5. Puddles and Pasties

There was a lot of blood. Wren was no doctor but she'd assume a person who'd lost that much would either need to be immediately hospitalised, or was dead.

"So, what do you know, Lestrade?" Sherlock scooted near the largest puddle on the floor. There were splashes on the walls, and even on the dirty mirror on the medical cabinet door.

"We got a call from a Tamara Williams, who claims to be friends with one of the lodgers of this flat." Lestrade checked his notebook. "Violet Stephens. The two of them were supposed to meet here, since Ms Stephens was going to leave her boyfriend, William Pasfield, and she was coming to pick up her belongings. Ms Williams didn't find her friend here. She had a spare key, she came in, saw the blood, and called us." The DI nervously scratched his head with the pen, ruffling his silver fox short cut. "Among other things, she mentioned that Ms Stephens had visited you yesterday. I presume that was after Mrs Greaves was shot instead of the very Violet Stephens, right?"

The DI threw Wren a sad look. She didn't nod, not sure how much Sherlock was planning to disclose to the copper.

"Ms Stephens left my flat last night at half past nine, with one of my homeless associates," the Detective answered. "She was supposed to stay in a safe house until my further instructions. As far as I understand, her initial plan had been to pick up her belongings and leave town with her friend Ms Williams on Monday, after the latter was to be paid at her job in a flower shop. We agreed that the plan was to change now, especially considering that Mr Pasfield had allegedly made an attempt on Ms Stephens' life, injuring Mrs Greaves in process."

Sherlock pulled out his foldable magnifying glass and studied the sink and the wall above it. Wren to her surprise didn't feel any nausea or headache. The smell of the blood was strong for her sensitive nose, but somehow she seemed disassociated from it. _Was it being married to a former SAS officer with PTSD psychosis and recurring flashbacks and nightmares that made her so stress resistant? It might have been all those couple therapy sessions they went to, thought which she had to listen to his account of his intrusive memories._

Her mind was working twice the normal speed. And it was exhilarating! _Forget her boring job, and all other mundane challenges that she had to face! Her synopses firing up, adrenaline rushing into her blood - she could just feel her grey cells rejoice!_

"Where's Ms Williams now?" the Detective asked rising on his feet.

"I sent her in a car to the Scotland Yard. She's pretty shaken. She's certain that Mr Pasfield had killed his girlfriend."

And just because at that moment Wren was watching Sherlock's face, she caught a twist of his lips. _Self-doubt. Guilt. Remorse._ He, unlike her, could of course make an educated judgement; and judging by the minuscule changes in his expression, because of the amount of blood and the pattern of splatters he thought Violet was dead.

"But it is possible to find out whose blood it is, right? I mean, I'm no expert..." Wren softly addressed the DI, and he gave her a surprised look. "We can't know it's hers. And also, if it's murder then, where's the body?"

 _Was she actually specifically playing dumb and asking childish questions just to make Sherlock feel better? Apparently, the answer was yes, she was._

"Yeah, of course," Lestrade rushed to reassure her. _Kind, clumsily gallant. Protective. Immediately prepared to forget all the warning signs in her that had been scaring him previously._ "You see, this Billie chap, he's a gang. Maybe, they had a fight here. Maybe, it's his blood."

"There are no smears," Sherlock pronounced slowly. "The blood splashed, dripped on the floor. This puddle here is blood falling freely, probably from a cut, judging by the dispersion. But there are no smudges, no hand prints. The wounded didn't try to stop it, and didn't wash his or hands afterwards."

"And neither did the assailant, if it was a different person," Wren added, and felt the DI's surprised eyes on herself. _Sherlock seemed back in the game. No more pussyfooting needed._ "Could the person who was stabbed have been drugged? Why weren't they fighting?"

"They could have been restrained." Sherlock took a step away from the sink, and bumped in Wren. The bathroom was tiny, of course. He swirled on one spot, and Wren and the DI jumped away from him.

"So, someone was held down here and bled dry?" Wren doubted. "That surely doesn't scream jealousy rage crime to me. And that was what Violet said, didn't she? That her boyfriend was going to kill her if she tried to leave him. Also, why would he use a knife if he had a Glock 17C, a bullet from which you personally had dug out of Sherlock's wall?" Wren asked Lestrade, and he was now eyeing her in clear emotional discomfort. _He had every right. She was an ickle, demure looking former librarian; and that was the second investigation he had to share with her; and she just said 'Glock 17C' without batting her meticulously lined eyes._

"Well, we will analyse the blood. And we'll try to find Ms Stephens and her boyfriend, and we'll keep you posted."

Sherlock was still studying the bathroom, but then he made his theatrical one eighty turn, his coat swirling like Batman's cape. Wren suppressed a smile. _Show off._

"Let's have a look around the flat, Mrs Greaves. Maybe, you will contribute to the investigation with more of your genius empathic observations."

The detective stomped out of the bathroom, and Wren rolled her eyes and followed. Lestrade was gaining a grey tinge to his skin. Wren sympathised him wholeheartedly. Sherlock was frustrating; she was confusing. Surely, lovely Greg Lestrade would prefer a triple murder to being stuck with the two of them.

* * *

Wren had nothing to contribute to Sherlock's examination of the flat. Everything seemed quite normal, so she just wandered the small cluttered space after the Detective. There were photos of usual groups of young people, some drunk, some making daft gang signs. Picnics, parties, pubs, couple photos from some car races.

The coppers in the flat were throwing her surprised, somewhat cautious looks. John always said that the easiest way to get rid of unwanted attention from other people was to turn and give them a direct look. While the Consulting Detective was studying floorboards near a dirty, worn out li-lo, Wren lifted her face and met the eyes of one of the policemen. He blinked, while Wren slowly raised one eyebrow. The bloke quickly found something to busy himself with. After two more quick executions of the sort, Wren could exhale, tension leaving the back of her neck.

"There was something hidden here, under the floor, Inspector," Sherlock called to Lestrade, who heavily walked up to them.

The boards were lifted, opening a large empty space. Wren peaked over Sherlock's shoulder. He was shining a flashlight into the blackness under the floor.

"Something big was kept here. Judging by the traces, I'd assume a large sports bag. Heavy. Containing smaller, loose objects. Most probable assumption would be stacks of money."

"You couldn't possibly tell that by the scratches on the dirt!" Wren exclaimed, and he threw her a look from the corner of his eyes. "It could have been packs of cocaine, or a small haul of handguns."

The DI made a small croak like noise near her. Wren ignored him.

"Money is more probable. According to my homework associates, Pasfield was in the stolen vehicles business." The Detective rose, and handed the flashlight back to the nearest policeman. "He works in a car shop in Croydon."

"Oh?" Wren gave him a small smile. "You take me to the best places, Mr Holmes."

"We checked, Sherlock." Lestrade gave out a martyrly sigh. "Billie Pasfield finished his shift at seven this morning, and allegedly went home."

"Something tells me, Inspector, Mrs Greaves and I have a better chance to gather information in a car shop in Croydon that any of your officers." The mocking expression on the DI's face told Wren what he thought two posh peeps such as herself - at least appearances wise these days - and the Consulting Detective could get out of some pikey car repairmen, but Wren was sure he was underestimating both of them.

"Keep me informed, Inspector. Mrs Greaves and I will let you know if we find anything." The Detective straightened his scarf and marched to the exit. Wren gave the DI a warm smile and followed Sherlock. "Laters."

"Have a good day, Inspector," Wren threw over her shoulder, and sped up down the stairs.

* * *

In a cab the Detective kept silent, and Wren pulled out her mobile to check her emails. The unanswered call was from John. She texted him asking whether something was wrong.

She was twirling her Motorola in her fingers, waiting for the response, when suddenly Sherlock covered her hand with his large palm.

"Stop fidgeting, Mrs Greaves. You're disrupting my thinking." Wren looked up at him. He was smiling to her, some new expression in his eyes, and Wren stuffed the phone into her coat pocket.

"So, what is your theory, Mr Holmes?"

"I have five, potentially six. But what I want to know is why Ms Stephens chose to once again rely on her friend, Tamara Williams, to help her escape, if it had been already established that the latter was hardly the right person. She wasn't her closest friend, judging by the photos in the flat, and hardly the brightest of them. I also want to know where the money is, and why the blood formed such a strange pattern in the bathroom."

"Indeed," Wren agreed bleakly.

She squirmed on the seat in discomfort. _Measured breath, in and out. Grounding one's thoughts. What was bothering her exactly? Besides the lack of comforting and hopefully flirty text from her husband._ She just couldn't gather her thoughts, some sort of irritated restlessness as if crawling her skin.

 _He didn't care. Sherlock. That was the answer. She could just be the skull from his mantelpiece, just like Dr Watson had described on his blog all those years ago. She was the sounding board._ Wren sardonically wondered whether the Detective even remembered her real name.

"Do you want to eat now, or wait after we are done in the shop?" the Detective asked, and it took Wren an extra second to register his question. She looked at him in surprise. He smiled to her. _Not triumphantly, not because he once again guessed something. Warm, wide smile. With crinkles in the corners of the eyes, making him almost attractive. "_ When you came to me three years ago, you had a reminder in your phone. It would go off every three hours. Eating disorder, I presume. You don't have it anymore, but the discolouration of nails and the slight tremor of fingers points at hypoglycemia. In the morning you were probably emotionally compromised, so I doubt it was the full English breakfast. The blood sugar dropped since you only ate in the hotel, and currently your nervous system is struggling with anxiety associated with the drop. I personally reject human emotions, but they are the basis of your alleged ability. So, do you want to eat now, or you can manage?"

Wren suddenly laughed loudly.

"Are you saying you're worried for me, Sherlock?"

"I'm saying, you need a Cornish pasty." Wren snorted, since it sounded endlessly entertaining when pronounced in his toff voice, and she nodded.

"Cornish pasty it is. And I suppose you won't have any, since you don't eat at a job."

He smiled lopsidedly, and leaned ahead to give directions to the cabbie.


	6. Don't Be Shy and Pipe in

**A/N: Miss me? :D (Sorry, I can never pass an opportunity for a good Moriarty joke :D) I'm back to this story, in the light of having watched Series 4. Whatever either of us thinks about it, the last episode was emotional, for one reason or another. I react to most emotional situations with fanfiction :) So here it is.**

 **Remember** **, it's a sequel to _Read Like a Book_ ; and this story takes place four years after John and Mary's wedding. This is now officially an AU, but what can you do? Mr Moffat likes his special kind of angst.**

 **Cheers,**

 **Katya Kolmakov**

* * *

Sherlock watched Mrs Greaves eat her hot pocket, holding the pastry between index fingers and thumbs. She was hissing from the hot filling, but continued eating. _Wedding band. Sapphire engagement ring. Never taken off._ He'd already looked at her jewellery when she came in. _Why was he looking again?_

They were sitting on a bench in a park, and he glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"So, Pasfield had a lot of money hidden under his floor," she said between small delicate chews. "His girlfriend hated him, and wanted to get away. And now there are lashings of blood on the floor of their flat. And two days ago a man, significantly larger than Pasfield in size - I saw his photographs in the flat - broke into your place and shot a woman he assumed was Violet. What's your theory here, Mr Holmes?"

"My theory is that Ms Stephens fled her undesired association with Mr Pasfield by faking her death. The blood in the bathroom was sprayed, probably previously frozen, or extracted out of her carefully just a few moments before the staging..."

"If they are smart, and googled that it could be determined by a chemical analysis, yes," she confirmed, and took another bite.

"So, I would assume that the man who had shot you is an associate of Ms Stephens, and the shooting was to convince me and the police that Ms Stephens is in danger from her boyfriend. Meanwhile, Mr Pasfield is currently on the run, after arriving to his flat earlier today, and discovering what looked like a scene of a crime he would be the primary suspect of."

"That is only if the other man wasn't supposed to shoot her, when he broke into your place. Otherwise, it's counterintuitive. Risking her health just before pumping plenty of blood out of her is beyond daft." She finished the food, and wiped her fingers on a napkin.

It was strange sitting so close to her, as emotional of the term 'strange' was. She was having the same effect on him as she had had four years ago. She was distracting.

' _It is because you like me!' she screamed into his face then, and then shied away, her cheeks flaming up immediately._

 _In peace, he felt in peace near her. The mind slowed down. There was contentment too. She felt like_ _benzodiazepines, just the right dosage, the next day. When the high had broken, but the withdrawal didn't come, and that calm emptiness, and finally, the silence in his mind. Not numb; active. But no pain._

He'd deleted memories of her, leaving just a few factual ones; but some would still seem to resurface from time to time, just like with the Woman. If he was too deep in the mind palace, or impaired. The usage brought her back as well.

 _Once, in a den, he thought he saw her. He knew, of course, it was the hallucination, but it felt good to have her scoot near him and cup his face. The memories of how cool her narrow hands had been deleted. It was just the drugs._

"It still feels wrong," she muttered, and wiped her bright red lips. The colouring had returned to them; and the eyes weren't shining feverishly anymore. _The tremour in the fingers was gone. The blood sugar had risen._

"It's too simple," she mused, and took a sip of tea from her foam cup. "It would make a boring book."

"People are generally boring, Mrs Greaves," he reminded her, and she laughed softly.

"Not all of them, Mr Holmes."

She stretched her legs into front of her, and studied the ankle boots. They were of light beige colour. _Impractical. Not new. Taken good care of._

"But it all looks like a cheap melodrama, you know," she drew out.

"It is a marginally clever melodrama," Sherlock answered, and saw a small smile on her lips. "There is no crime, and no damage. Mr Pasfield will not be charged for the murder, since none was committed. And while he is being questioned, Ms Stephens will disappear with his money."

"Which he can't claim has been stolen since it was obtained illegally anyroad," she finished his thought, and nodded. "I like it. That my adventure has no real crime in it. That it's just… a marginally clever melodrama."

"Need I remind you, you have been shot, Mrs Greaves?" He didn't know why he was joking. Maybe, he liked the sound of her laugh.

"Well, one needs to pay for one's pleasures, Mr Holmes."

"Is it worth it then? An adventure paid for by a penetrating tissue trauma caused by a ballistic injury?" he asked. _Too fast. He asked too fast._

"Every moment of it," she answered in a quiet voice, and there was some odd expression in her eyes. He didn't recognise it. The pupils were dilated, and there was tension in the corners of her mouth.

And then she smiled widely, her face changing completely.

"Shall we go to a dodgy car shop in Croydon, Mr Holmes? I can't wait to explore whether I can use my - now classified - non privileged upbringing and my new lifestyle in an investigation."

* * *

There were three men in the shop, and Sherlock took the precautionary position between Mrs Greaves and the largest man, near a Ford Anglia on a ramp.

Other two rose from the small plastic table they were sitting at. One had a wrench clasped to his belt. Sherlock evaluated the distances from each of them to the nearest elongated objects that could be used as a weapon. Judging by the state of the tools on a table by the entrance, the cleanliness of the men's hands, and the layer of dust on the Ford, the shop wasn't operational, and only served as a cover up.

"Good day, gentlemen" Mrs Greaves announced gleefully. "We're looking for Billie Pasfield. And we are willing to generously remunerate those who provide us with any valuable information." Her upper pronunciation was impeccable. The accent Sherlock had detected four years ago was now almost gone.

"Who's asking?" the man with the wrench barked, and Mrs Greaves shifted brilliant merry eyes at him.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes here doesn't require introductions, I assume. And you can call me Mrs Greaves."

"Holmes? The detective on the telly? The hat one?" the second bloke asked, and Sherlock noticed the large one by the car shift.

"Indeed," Sherlock answered, and moved to his left as well. Surprisingly Mrs Greaves followed his example.

"So, where could we find Mr Pasfield?" Mrs Greaves smiled sunnily.

"Don't know nothing," the first man grumbled, and she smiled wider.

"Of course you don't. You aren't in charge here." She then turned to the third man. "You, sir, would you be so kind as to tell us where Mr Pasfield would be hiding in case of an emergency? You see, he is currently under the suspicion of domestic murder, of one Ms Violet Stephens. It has nothing to do with your business pursuits, I assure you." She made a nonchalant wave around the place. "Just a small case of domestic violence."

"Why would we help you?" the man gritted through his teeth and stepped forward. _Recently released from prison. More than five years of incarceration. Recent gun wound in the left leg. Three... no, four months old. The right knee previously broken. Twice._

"Because I assume you rather not have Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, pry in the business operations of your… establishment," Mrs Greaves answered.

"Or we can just bury you in our backyard, you minging munter," the man spat out.

Mrs Greaves laughed. "Do you have enough room there? I know I'm small, but Mr Holmes here will require more space."

Sherlock gave her a studying look. _Calm. Collected. Physically strong. Increased body mass and higher muscle ratio compared to four years ago. Partially healed bruises on the knuckles of both hands consistent with hand-to-hand combat training._

The other two men moved forward, and Wren took two steps to her right, and three back, putting Sherlock between them and herself. He felt her eyes on him, and gave her a small nod without turning to her. She was right. In the present situation, considering the physical characteristics of the three men, she had better chances against a single, though larger opponent, than the two weaker yet faster men. The man by the car had a two foot six inch pipe in his hand.

The pipe proved to be inefficient. While Sherlock incapacitated half of his adversaries with a quick uppercut, disarming the man of his wrench, and applying it to the stomach of the second one - Mrs Greaves executed a _morote dori._ _Aikido. Impeccable. Regulated exhale._ And then, a consequent swift and masterly attack of her elbow and the right heeled foot. _Krav Maga_. _Fully automatic responses._

The pipe loudly clanked on the floor, the sound almost drowned in the men's swearing and screams.

* * *

And then the door to the shop was kicked in, and a familiar figure walked in.

John Greaves, presumably né Thorington, moved along the wall, a SIG Sauer P232 in his hand. He then looked over the shop and the three men groaning and rolling on the floor, and stopped crawling by the wall like a giant nocturnal animal.

Thorington stepped into the light streaming from the small windows up under the ceiling. _Additional half stone of weight compared to four years ago. Healthy complexion. Previous night sleepless. Three and a half years smoking free. Not on antipsychotic medications._ His eyes met Mrs Greaves' and Sherlock saw her frown. The detective was hardly adept in interpreting the silent conversation those two led in the next five seconds; and then Mrs Greaves emitted a sigh, and walked up to her husband.

"Hello, darling." She got up on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his cheek. He gave her a side glance.

"Evening." He then looked at the detective. "Mr Holmes."

"Mr Greaves." Sherlock turned away from them, and looked over the three men on the floor. And then an idea came. "Wren, which one shall we interrogate?" he asked in a nonchalant tone. The gesture was petty. ' _Wren.' And 'we.' Showing off their non existent intimacy. Shut up!_

She walked up to him, he heard the heels click to the floor lightly.

"This one," she pointed at the man Sherlock hit with the wench. _Logical choice. Not as adamantly loyal to his boss. In more physical pain that others. Dilated pupils. Scared._

"Allow me, dear," Thorington raised his voice. He grabbed the man by his collar and lifted him in the air in an unnecessary demonstration of his physical prowess. _Twelve centimeters of height. Twenty eight kilos. This was the difference between him and Sherlock. Shut up._

The man twitched in Thorington's grasp and slumped.

"Where's Billie Pasfield, mate?" Mrs Greaves asked, all her posh pronunciation gone; and she gently poked the man under ribs with the pipe she picked up from the ground. Sherlock noted that she avoided the area he had been previous hit in.

"Who's Billie Pasfield?" Thorington asked in a fake merry and curious tone.

"Ah, just a git who might have end in his girlfirend. Or not. It's still to be determined. Oi, mate!" Mrs Greaves once again turned her attention to the man dangling in the air. "Where's Billie?"

"I don't know! He has his flat, and his Mom lives in the Estates, same place, but other than that..."

"Shut your gob, Craig!" the larger man rasped from the floor.

"No, no, no, Craig, don't listen to the pillock!" Mrs Greaves clapped the pipe to her left palm in front of Craig's face. He jerked and stared at her. "Listen to me, mate! Who do you think is your chum here? Those two blighters?" She pointed at the men on the floor with her pipe. "They only care about their money, and coppers not finding out about the little business you're running here. Or do you think a famous detective from the telly will help you out? You watch the telly, you read papers. You aren't an idiot, Craig. You know he only cares about getting more clients. Look at his coat. It costs more than your wheels!" She then pointed at her husband. "Or do you think John dear will treat you kindly? The man hasn't had a good punch up for four years, his knuckles are itching to meet someone's clock. And he is bloody good at it, believe me. Can kill you with a plastic utensil. He's also a wee bit dischuffed right now, and you're already here. So, how about you and I chinwag for a bit? You help me, I help you? Yeah, Craig?" At the end her voice became soft and what John Watson in his blog would call 'lilting.' Or 'purring.'

The man blinked, gulped, his eyes shifting between people present.

"Billie had another flat, up North. He thought no one knew, not even his girlfriend… He took chicks there, you know?" he mumbled, and Mrs Greaves nodded, a warm amicable smile playing on her lips. She didn't break the eye contact with him for a second. "But I followed him once… And I told them..." He jerked his head towards his associates. "So, we knew, but he thought it's safe, so..."

"Well, that is lovely. We will be on our way then." She threw a quick side glance to Thorington who carefully lowered the man on the ground, without releasing the collar. "Could we have the address, please?"


	7. Come Back

The three of them stepped outside, and the detective jerked the collar of his preposterous Belstaff up.

"Mr Holmes, would you be so kind to go without me in the first cab?" Wren asked mannerly, and John quickly looked at her. The perfectly polite face and the even tone meant he was in more barney than the Stock after the Brexit. "I'll catch you later."

The detective shifted his eyes between the two of them, and the upper lip curled even more. John suppressed a violent urge to punch the otter face. He properly didn't fancy being studied.

The coat swooshed, the door slammed, and the first cab was gone.

"When did you come?" Wren's voice was hollow.

"In the morning. Tom is with Mrs Harris." John carefully watched the small twitches of her lips. Maybe, there was still a chance she was just angry, and would start yelling at him now.

He knew all she had to say; but her being silent, her lips pressed in a strict line, meant she thought the current situation was beyond discussion - and that was bad.

He knew he was supposed to stay home. He was jealous, and consequently potentially violent; after all 'possessiveness and paranoia enhanced by PTSD' were written almost in every notepad of every therapist he had been seeing, including the two he was seeing together with Wren.

He should have stayed home. Or he should have told her that he wasn't processing her staying in the city longer in any way healthily. He should have asked for help. Instead, he'd just broken into a garage, with a SIG Sauer P232 in his hand - and he enjoyed it. He'd felt acute relief when he heard the noise from inside - he finally had an excuse to stop keeping distance.

He looked at her again. She was still quiet, and he felt churning discomfort inside.

"Wren..."

"I'm going to tell you one thing," she started in a dark voice, and then turned to him sharply. The cat eyes were narrowed. "I'm going to tell you one thing, and you are going to think very, very hard about it. I want you to get over your lack of sensitivity and your inability to empathise with another person, and I want you to use all your immense intellect and all the bloody skills your bloody job had given you, and imagine yourself in my shoes. Are you ready?" Her lips were now white from anger.

He nodded.

"I want you to feel like it's your own stomach right now, John. And imagine how close I am to throwing up at the thought that while I was sitting on that bloody bench two hours ago, eating my pasty, you were watching me." She took a shuddered breath in, and gave him a long look. "I'm nauseous right now, and in physical pain in my abdomen. That is how much of a breach of trust this was."

There was a knot in his throat, and he swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth with difficulty.

"I wasn't… coping," he rasped out.

"No, you bloody weren't," she scoffed. "But you said you were. I told you everything; I told you I was shot, I told you I was going to stay..."

"You called him 'Sherlock...'" John really should have shut his gob, but they had never had a fight like that. He had never felt that worried.

"That's his name!" she hissed back.

"Your voice changes when you say it."

Wren called her own inability to keep her thoughts to herself 'Leary-Tourette' after her - now classified - real name. Apparently, it was contagious - and potentially sexually transmitted.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"I am not going to answer to this comment of yours," she said. "You know that all you allow yourself to think and to feel at the moment is wrong; and a huge setback in your recovery process. To say nothing of how damaging it is to our relationship!" She made a dischuffed noise, and waved to a passing taxi. "Why am I even talking about this?" she mumbled under her nose. "What's the point now..."

"Because you haven't given up," he said, and she looked at him askance. "Wren, I'm sorry… And you know it… I have no excuses. I was never good… at bringing up arguments for you to be with me."

"John, it's not about me being, or not being with you! And it's especially not about me choosing! It never was!" she raised her voice, and then a cab stopped near them; and he needed her to continue talking, but she already turned to the car. He rushed ahead and opened the door for her.

She gave the cabbie the address, and pressed into the opposite end of the seat, purposefully keeping distance between their bodies.

She liked to sit close. He liked when she sat close. She was often cold, and loved pushing her right hand in the pocket of his coat, intertwining their fingers. He loved it probably more than she did. At the moment, her arms were crossed on her chest.

"Please, talk to me." He could hear how pleading he sounded.

"If you were worried I was in trouble, you could have said so. You could've asked me to come back," she muttered in a dull tone. "Or we could discuss you coming here. But you were jealous. And that's why you came and... spied on me. Because you allowed yourself to make it about him. About Sherlock Holmes... while it had nothing to do with him."

John properly had nothing to say to it. He also didn't want to talk about it. All he needed to know was where they're standing. And what he was supposed to do to fix it.

Wren continued muttering something, gesturing, and making faces; and he just waited.

"You aren't even listening to me!" she hissed, and he focused on her.

"I am. I just..." He didn't know what to say, especially since she was giving him an exaggerated expectant look, one eyebrow raised sarcastically. He shook his head, and lowered his eyes. He wasn't playing in repentance; he was just intently waiting for her verdict. After all, that's all that was to it. It had always been up to her.

She was very quiet, and he was taking careful breaths in. And then the cab stopped, and he pushed his hand in the jeans pocket looking for cash.

"What hotel are you in?" she asked, and he whipped his head towards her.

"The Radisson we stayed in last year," he answered, after clearing his throat.

"I'll finish up here, and I'll be there," she said in an emotionless voice, and their eyes met.

"And then what?" he asked. The cabbie took the money and coughed pointedly. John pushed another note into his hand.

Wren chewed at her bottom lip, and shrugged.

"And then we'll see."

There was a knock at the window, and John knew it was the detective.

And then Wren leaned in and pressed her lips to his.

"I'll see you soon," she whispered into the kiss, pushed her door open - and she was gone.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked, and John closed his eyes.

* * *

In his room, he took a shower, ordered food, and ate, without turning the telly on. He left his mobile in the pocket of the coat; the volume was turned up enough for him to hear a ring; while the phone was far enough for John not to glance at it every three seconds.

He then lay down on the made bed, with a book. He knew he wouldn't read, but the weight of it on his stomach was something his mind could use as an anchor to stop from spinning out of control.

Three hours and twenty three minutes later the clerk at the reception desk let him know she was here, and John got up and walked up to the door. He could hear the lift open at the end of the corridor; and the steps, once she'd passed half of the distance; and then a knock at the door.

John peeled his forehead off the inside of the door, and opened it.

He was so focused on her face that it took him extra three seconds to notice the dirty coat, torn left sleeve, and a virtually obliterated stocking on her left leg.

"We tried to catch the culprit, but he got away," she said, while his eyes roamed her head to toe. "I fell off a fire escape. You know, those external metal staircases…" She exhaled and looked him directly in the eyes. "I'm not hurt."

He stepped aside, letting her in. There was a blood stain on her right shoulder. The coat was new; she'd bought it just before the visit to the detective.

"You're bleeding."

"Yeah, it's the gun wound. It's opened again, from all the running, I reckon. We had it patched..."

'We' scraped at John's hearing, and judging by a small cringe she'd noticed his reaction.

"I'll go take a shower, alright?" she said, and he nodded.

When she came out of the bathroom, her hair wet and curling - she didn't have that gizmo of hers with her - he was sitting on the bed, his hands steepled in front of his mouth, elbows on his knees.

She came up to him, and her hotel robe covered chest was in front of his eyes. He looked up, and she smiled to him softly.

"That really wasn't good, John." He exhaled through rounded lips.

"No, it wasn't," he answered with relief. The jury was back, and apparently his hanging had been cancelled. Or at least postponed.

Her left hand cupped his jaw, and she gently brushed the tips of the fingers of the right one to his temple, and then pushed the hand into his hair. He splayed his hands on her lower back, and carefully pulled her in. The adrenaline and the numbing effect of the hot shower would wear off soon. She was still moving on inertia, but he knew she'd be in pain and knackered in a few minutes.

She bent down and kissed him firmly.

"Wren… You shouldn't..." She didn't let him continue, her lips moving insistently.

He always had little control with her. Something had just clicked for them, from the start, and every time. He didn't know - and didn't care - why it was great. They just were.

But then he carefully placed his hands on her waist - almost encircling it - and moved her away.

"We'll make it worse..." He saw how red and swollen her lips were, and how hungry and brilliant the eyes were. "Wren..."

"We won't, if you just lie down and let me lead." She gave him a cheeky grin. "That is if that won't make you feel even more emasculated..."

Keeping their eyes locked, he picked up the end of the belt and pulled slowly.

"Just make sure you don't pull your stitches..." he said absent-mindedly, distracted by the pale skin that had opened to his eyes.

"You say the most romantic things..." she laughed, and then pressed her hands into his shoulders, and pushed.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

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 **Romance/erotica webserial _Jack in the Box_**

Armed with several degrees in psychology, sociology, and literary studies, as well as a particular set of skills and abilities, Gemma Wright works as a muse for artists in various creative fields. She can inspire a hit album; pull a popular novelist out of a writer's block; or organize an international tour for a dance company.

Gemma has strict rules and a precise plan for her personal life - and Jack Richards, a famous mystery writer, definitely doesn't fit her criteria. Perhaps, his direct competitor, John Barnett, with his soft manners and seemingly humble disposition, is a better match for Gemma than the dark and handsome Richards.

Understanding others and leading them to the fulfilling and rewarding life is Gemma's specialty, but does she know the answers to the same questions when it comes to her own life?

{Updated every Thursday!}

 **4\. A romance/erotica/drama webserial "Dr. T Series" on my blog kolmakov dot ca**

Summary: Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

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* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!

* * *

 **Summary:**

Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom.

John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm.

Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more.

Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?


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